Matthew didn’t approve of the deal I’d made with the goddess to save his life in exchange for giving her the use of mine.
“Maybe we’re overreacting,” I said. “Maybe the griffin is just a harmless gift.”
“Nothing she does is harmless. What might the goddess give Rebecca when the time comes for her to make magic? A golden hind? A bear?” Matthew’s eyes were darkening with emotion. He shook his head. “No, Diana. I’m not having it.”
“You said yourself we can’t just pretend the twins don’t have magic in their blood,” I said, trying to be reasonable.
“Magic is one thing. Griffins and goddesses and hell and destruction—that’s something else entirely.” Matthew’s anger was rising. “Is that what you want for your son?
And the father of freedom on earth. Philippe’s voice was nothing but a whisper, his expression sad. Why is it always the dark with Matthew? Never the light.
It was a question Philippe had asked me before. There was no easy answer to it. Matthew’s faith, his blood rage, and his overactive conscience colored everything. It made his joy, his unexpected smiles, and his forgiveness all the more precious when he was able to rise above his darker feelings.
“Are you asking me to spellbind him?” I demanded.
Matthew looked shocked.
“Because that’s what it might take to raise Philip safely if he is a weaver and he doesn’t have Apollo to rely on,” I said. “Apollo can be with Philip even when we can’t. They’ll be a team.”
“Philip cannot take a griffin to school,” Matthew retorted. “New Haven is progressive, but there are limits.”
“Maybe not, but he can take a Labrador retriever. Provided it goes through the proper training program, of course, and gets certified,” I said, thinking aloud. “Apollo should make quite a convincing assistance dog, with the right disguising spell.”
“Not doggy, Mama,” Philip said, rocking his horse around the sheepskin in something vaguely like a gallop. “Griff’n.”
“Yes, Philip,” I said, giving him a weak smile.
My son had a pet griffin. My daughter relished the taste of blood.
I was beginning to understand why my parents might have thought spellbinding was a good option.
* * *
—
WHEN WE REJOINED THE REST of the family, they were settled out in the courtyard under a brightly colored umbrella, gathered around a table covered with snacks and beverages, talking a mile a minute. Apollo was with them.
“Yet you listened to my ancestor Sarah Bishop, and went back to Hadley as she told you to do,” Sarah was saying. “That took courage—giving up dreams of glory to look after your mother and sister.”
“It didn’t feel courageous at the time.” Marcus was cracking pistachio nuts at a furious pace, and throwing the shells on the ground for Apollo to peck at. “Some people accused me of cowardice.”
“Obviously they didn’t live with your father.” Sarah cut through any tension Marcus might be feeling with her usual combination of complete honesty and compassion.
I gave her shoulders a squeeze and sat down in front of the iced tea pitcher. My aunt looked up at me in surprise.
“Everything okay?” Sarah asked.
“Of course.” I poured myself some tea. “Matthew and I have been talking about what to do about Apollo.”
“He didn’t like being separated from Philip,” Agatha said.
“I’m not surprised.” Marcus ate a handful of pistachios. “The bond between a familiar and a weaver must be powerful. How’s Becca taking it?”
“She doesn’t seem at all jealous,” I replied thoughtfully.
“Give it time,” Marcus said with a laugh. “I imagine she’ll feel differently when Philip chooses to play with Apollo and not her.”
“Maybe Apollo is the familiar for both of them?” Matthew said hopefully.
“I don’t think it works that way,” I said, dashing his hopes. He looked so forlorn that I gave him a kiss. “A familiar is a weaver’s training wheels, remember? Each one is different, and perfectly suited to the weaver’s talents.”
“So because Becca and Philip are fraternal twins, they’ll have different abilities, and therefore different familiars,” Marcus said. “Got it.”
“We still don’t know if Becca is a weaver, of course,” I reminded them.
Everybody looked at me with pity, as if I’d lost my mind.